Eleventh Grave in Moonlight

“Charley Davidson?”

Damn. What bill did I forget to pay? I was so bad at the whole bill-paying thing.

“You are going to drive to the Giant on Fourth and Vineyard.”

“I am?” This person must’ve had ESP, because I didn’t even know I was going to drive to the Giant on Fourth and Vineyard. It was uncanny. And, frankly, a little out of my way.

“You are if you want to see your client Shawn Foster alive again. Come alone. Call the cops and he dies.”

The caller hung up, and I stared at my phone for a solid thirty seconds before dialing Shawn’s number. It rang a few times before voicemail picked it up.

“Shawn, if you get this, please call me.”

Just because they said they had Shawn didn’t mean they actually did. Granted, most people wouldn’t say something like that if it weren’t true, but how did I know it wasn’t Eidolon saying “Hi” again?

I wasn’t about to call Reyes back from his mission. Beep was our number one priority, and Shawn was my client, my responsibility, not his.

I put the phone away and schooled my features, contemplating the irony of someone calling and threatening me should I call the cops when I was in the process of having lunch with one. What were the odds?

Uncle Bob sat down with his own mystery meal.

“Who was that?”

I didn’t want to completely throw off my oblivious uncle. I might need him should things go south. Which, sadly, was often the case.

So, I’d give him a clue. If I ended up dead – a possibility Reyes swore impossible, but I remained far from convinced – Uncle Bob would know where to look for my body before it decayed too much.

“That was my hairdresser, Mrs. Foster.” I put my phone away. “Cookie knows her.”

He crinkled his brows as he chewed. “You call your hairdresser Mrs. Foster?”

“’Parently. I gotta head that way. I forgot I had an appointment.”

He nodded and took another bite. Poor guy.

“I wanted to thank you, Uncle Bob.”

He swallowed and leveled a curious stare on me. He was such a great guy. Even with the seventies style ’stache.

“You know, just for being you.” I leaned over and hugged him then left my trash on the table and hurried toward the exit, praying I’d see him – and his ’stache – again.

I hopped in Misery and drove to the spot Shawn’s abductors had instructed, knowing that this could be my fault. I’d turned over the wrong rock when looking into the Foster case. I’d struck a nerve. The only thing I didn’t know was whose nerve I’d struck.

Well, that and how the hell they knew I was working with Shawn Foster on this. I had to think. Whose milk did I spill?

The Fosters. That was it. They were the ones with the most to lose. But he was their son. So, who else? Maybe it was someone else involved in Veronica Isom’s case. Or with the fake adoption agency. Or even with the missing girl we were looking for, Dawn Brooks.

While they all pointed back to the Fosters, I no longer believed they’d worked alone on any of it. They had followers. Believers who would likely do anything for them. Even abduct their son?

I thought about calling the Fosters, but what would I say? I still couldn’t tip them off to the fact that Shawn had come to me.

I’d taken the fastest route. I pulled up to the Giant and put Misery in park. First, I would meet with the person on the phone, then I’d have Ubie run a trace on Shawn’s.

I hadn’t been sitting there thirty seconds before my phone rang again.

“Leave your phone and walk to the abandoned car wash on the other side of Dion’s.”

“First, let me —”

They hung up before I could insist on hearing Shawn’s voice.

I clenched my jaw and contemplated if I should stuff my phone into my boot. Deciding against it, I left it on the floorboard with my bag, locked up Misery, and headed that way.

After crossing the street, I rounded Dion’s and, as sure as death and taxes, an abandoned car wash sat on the other side. It looked unassuming enough. Had probably been a family-run business. How bad could it be? Then again, the Mansons had been a family.

Stepping inside one of the tall bays with weeds growing out of the cracks in the cement, I looked around and saw no one.

Then I heard a male voice. “Back here.”

I whirled around and followed it to the back of the building. A mixture of weeds and ivy had grown along the chain link fence so that no one could see the back of the car wash from the restaurant next door. This just didn’t bode well.

A man, clean and dressed in khakis and a baby-blue button-down, coaxed me over with a nod. He looked about as much like a kidnapper as my accountant did.

And then it hit me. Of course. I was so stupid.

He stood by a dark blue sedan, the trunk open. After motioning me over, he patted me down and told me to take off my boots. When he was satisfied, he said, “Get in.”

“Look, you haven’t done anything yet.” He was so young. For a kidnapper, anyway. He looked in his early thirties. Clean cut. Well groomed.

It was all a ruse to get me to come along quietly. No one had Shawn. The Fosters were behind this. They’d used him to get to me.

“What do the Fosters want with me?”

So far, the guy had done two stupid things. He’d joined a cult of crazy people. And he’d worn a rope belt with khakis. Unless he was a sailor in his spare time, that was just tacky. But I was willing to forgive him his trespasses until he knocked the ever-lovin’ craptastic out of me.

He backhanded me. My head whipped to the side and hit the edge of the trunk lid, sending a sharp jolt of pain rushing through me.